


A Well-Rooted Briar

by sanguinity



Series: Briar [1]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: (because this is the Hornblower fandom and we hold hands like MEN), (but not the sexy kind), (but not too graphic), (it's okay no one actually dies), (or it would be if these two weren't idiots), Ardent Hand-Holding, Eventual Happy Ending, Fuck Or Die, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Melodrama, Pining, Pining Sex, Vomiting, deathbed confessions, self-abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Hornblower, convinced that Bush could never love him, is slowly dying from the floral illness, a sometimes-fatal disease that causes those suffering from one-sided love to vomit roses. Unfortunately, Bush confessing his own love for Hornblower only makes the disease progress more quickly…
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Series: Briar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618618
Comments: 16
Kudos: 45





	A Well-Rooted Briar

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon who asked if I would ever write [Hanahaki Disease](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease). Everything I know about the trope I read on Fanlore, but it seemed like a stellar opportunity for angst, pining, hurt/comfort, and melodrama. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to PhoenixFalls for beta and title, and goldenhart for cheerleading.

Sailors, like men of any profession, have their characteristic ills: ruptures and rheumatism, scurvy and tropical fevers, and the many ailments of love. Although sailors are famous for the last, their ailments of love are more closely associated with the land than the sea: for weeks after leaving port, the men queue to see the ship's surgeon for the maladies of love consummated and love denied, the surgeon dispensing mercury and ipecac in equal measures. Peppered pricks thankfully fall well outside of Bush's purview, but Venus's other curse is more public, resulting in men coughing up rose petals on Bush's clean decks, staining them pink as the men tread tread the petals into the planks. That kind of lovesickness is best cured by hard work, so Bush keeps the men far too busy to think on their misfortunes in love: there is sail drill and gun drill, rigging to be maintained and landsmen to be trained. Under Bush's direction, the men toil through watch and watch and fall into their hammocks too tired to think of those left ashore. Gradually they forget their sorrows in love, and by the time the sea runs blue under the _Hotspur's_ keel, Bush's decks are scrubbed white again.

That is the natural order of things: to love and forget. Bush has watched the cycle repeat itself, as predictable as the moon, from one port to the next, since he was twelve.

But Hornblower is not like other men, as Bush knows all too well. The intense brooding thought that makes Hornblower a tactical genius also makes him regrettably vulnerable to the floral disease. Hornblower has been prone to the lovesickness for as long as Bush has known him, the queer junior lieutenant of the _Renown_ with the stained handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket, its fabric blotchy with crumpled petals. The _Renown's_ wardroom had made Hornblower the victim of their homespun cures; Bush's efforts had perhaps been the kindest, attempting to distract Hornblower from the source of his suffering with the finest Kingston whores money could buy. But nothing seemed to give Hornblower relief. Bush's last memory of the new commander before they parted for their respective ships was of Hornblower with his handkerchief pressed to his mouth, desperately green with nausea.

The illness had dogged Hornblower even during the peace, when the liberty to pursue his affections ought to have set it to rights. In Portsmouth, after a merry evening celebrating their surprise reunion, Hornblower had been stricken with as severe an attack as Bush had yet witnessed, helplessly retching in his attic bed while Bush gripped his hand in support. Hornblower produced a profusion of petals on that occasion, the ejecta landing on his coverlet in evil little sodden clumps.

"I had fancied myself done with that," Hornblower said sheepishly.

Bush squeezed Hornblower's hand, pained to see that a year ashore had done so little for his friend's troubles. "Tell me who she is, Horatio, and where she might be found. Let me speak for you. Surely her heart cannot be so hard."

But Hornblower had only shook his head and convulsed anew, his hand still in Bush's. Even after he stilled, limp and panting, he seemed reluctant to release Bush's hand, and Bush, at a loss for how to comfort him, had crawled into Hornblower's bed, still pressing his hand. He turned Hornblower onto his side and curled around that long, lean frame, wishing that he could protect Hornblower from whomever it was he loved.

Hornblower burrowed deep into Bush's embrace, drawing Bush's arm tight around his waist. "I might almost think you loved me, Bush."

"I do," Bush replied fervently, awash in pity for his friend's misery. He indeed felt something wild and reckless for Hornblower; it might well be love. "Only pine for me instead, and I'll cure you of this, by god. Cure you and take you back to sea, and you'll never have to look at a flower again."

Hornblower had laughed at that, a sad, affectionate laughter. He patted Bush's arm. "There's no need for heroics; this will do. I'll rest easier so." His voice scraped with the punishment it had been through, and Bush ached to hear it.

Hornblower spoke truly: he slept easily and woke in the morning with a smile, looking dreamily at Bush. Bush had been moved to to kiss him, a proceeding which began brilliantly, Hornblower warm and responsive in his arms—

Until Hornblower frantically shoved at Bush, twisting away to convulse with dry heaves. Bush watched in distress, unable to provide comfort or relief.

Finally Hornblower lay still and panting.

"It seems I make a poor second best," Bush said ruefully.

Hornblower's expression was queer, but he turned away before Bush could make sense of it. "I'll call for hot water, and then we can go down to breakfast."

"Will your stomach take it?" Bush asked.

Hornblower laughed. "Hardly a petal, this time."

It had been three attacks in twelve hours; of course there hadn't been anything to bring up the third time. It was hardly as reassuring as Hornblower suggested.

But that morning brought the letter from the Admiralty, offering Hornblower command of the _Hotspur,_ and for a time Hornblower had been too busy with his new command to be much afflicted by matters of the heart. For a while, it was as if _Hotspur_ herself had supplanted the former object of Hornblower's love — as if command had been the cure that Hornblower had long sought, his ship requiting his love as the former object of his affection never had.

Nevertheless, the old disease had come creeping back.

Bush was slow to notice, too busy standing watch and watch as _Hotspur's_ sole lieutenant. Hornblower had initially hesitated to ask Bush to take the position, the unfilled role hanging awkwardly between them — in fact, it was not until Bush had begun packing to return to Chichester, having obviously overstayed his welcome in Portsmouth, that Hornblower, awkward with shyness, asked Bush to be his First. Hornblower had showed every outward sign of pleasure at Bush's acceptance, but Bush never forgot Hornblower's initial reluctance to have him on the _Hotspur._ Bush was determined that Hornblower should not live to regret the decision, and threw himself into the role with all the professional zeal he could muster, a zeal that kept him so focused on ship, rigging, and crew that he missed the return of the petal-stained handkerchief to Hornblower's waistcoat pocket.

"The captain is what?" Bush asked, pausing in his meal. The other gunroom officers exchanged looks around the table.

"Pumping ship," Martin, the clerk, answered. "This fortnight and longer. I hear him sometimes, when I'm doing his letters."

"Is it the rations?" Bush asked with a stern eye on Huffnell, the purser. Everyone knew Hornblower ate ship's rations like the men, but Bush knew of no illness among the men.

"The floral disease," Dr Wallis said shortly, and Bush put down his knife and fork.

"He's said nothing of this," Bush protested.

"Private man, the captain," Martin observed, and Prowse agreed.

"How far advanced is it?" Bush asked.

Wallis sucked his teeth, not liking to give an opinion, and Bush's stomach sank.

"Why now?" Bush asked. "He's been free of it since we sailed, three months and more."

Again the men exchanged glances around the table.

"Perhaps he's had a letter," Prowse suggested, not meeting Bush's eye, and the others were quick to seize upon the theory.

"What can be done?" Bush demanded, but Wallis shook his head.

"Not much to be done, and even less aboard ship." Surgery, Wallis meant, and a desperate measure that was, far more likely to kill a man than save him. "Emetics don't do much once the infection has properly taken root. And this briar is a well-rooted one."

Of course it would be; it had troubled Hornblower ever since the _Renown._ If only he could be set to hauling guns like the sailors, worked until he had no time to think of love, lost or otherwise! But captaincy left a man far too much time to think and brood.

"We can always hope for remission," Wallis added. "All spring, it's been quiet."

"Aye," Prowse said, with a sidelong glance at Bush, but his voice was not tinged with confidence.

Bush kept careful watch over his captain after that. To his dismay, it was exactly as the gunroom said: the floral disease was troubling Hornblower again. It was there in the way Hornblower turned green and ill even when the sea was calm; it was there in the catch in his lungs and the hoarse clearing of his throat as he tried to breathe past the obstruction in his chest. But there was little that Bush could do: the shyness Hornblower had once shown as a lieutenant had grown into an intense sense of privacy as a commander, and he neither shared nor invited confidences, not from Bush nor anyone else. Bush only watched and fretted, wishing he had the power to ease the briar that tormented his captain.

Then came the day that Hornblower could no longer hide his cough from Bush.

Standing next to Hornblower, Bush glimpsed the flash of red in Hornblower's handkerchief before Hornblower could whisk it out of sight. "Sir," Bush said, stepping forward, but Hornblower only fixed him with a sternly forbidding look.

"That will be all, Mr Bush," he said, and when Bush threatened to baulk, "Hadn't you best see to the forestay?"

Wise had preparations for re-rigging the forestay well in hand, or ought to — but it was that seed of doubt that pulled Bush up short. "Aye aye, sir," he said, but the lingering look he gave Hornblower was not so obedient as his words. Nevertheless, within minutes, the unfortunate Wise had a frustrated lieutenant to contend with in addition to the problem of the forestay itself, and Hornblower was able to retreat to his cabin to cough in peace.

The cough only grew worse. Worryingly, the illness was a true cough now, not just the dry heaves of Portsmouth: the briar had clearly progressed to Hornblower's lungs, moving in on his heart. The handkerchief could not be hidden, not from Bush nor from the crew, and more than once red petals bestrew the pristine planks of the quarterdeck before being carried away by the wind. The summer passed, as beautiful as any summer in memory, and Hornblower's face grew thin with fatigue while Bush hovered close, worried and attentive, his eyes as often on his captain as on the ship.

"Attention to what you're doing, Mr Bush," Hornblower scolded one July morning, colouring hotly under Bush's gaze. Bush had been leading gun drill, the exercise filling him with pride for the well-oiled machine the Hotspurs had become, when Hornblower had been taken by a sudden, fierce coughing fit, one that had made him double over and clasp the rail for support. Now Hornblower glared at Bush as he panted for breath.

"Your cough, sir," Bush protested, his voice low with worry.

"Damn my cough!" Hornblower exclaimed in sudden fury. He was overtaken by the cough again, and Bush watched helplessly as Hornblower dragged in a ragged breath. "If I was struck down in battle, you must continue without a thought for me! How dare you be distracted over a cough!"

Bush stiffened, colouring in shame. "Aye aye, sir," he said, and turned his eyes back to the gun crews, who were watching the dispute between captain and lieutenant with undisguised interest. "Sponge your guns!" he bellowed, and the men reluctantly returned to their tasks. "Not like that, Lowe! Do you want to blow your damn hand off? Show a care, man!" Bush heard the coughing fit renew itself beside him, but this time he kept his eyes resolutely forward. "Load your guns!"

But a rippling of inattention went through the crews, murmurs of astonishment. Their eyes were turned to Hornblower where he stood at the rail, but Bush, mindful of his duty, refused to turn and look himself. "Spenser! Sturgeon! Johnson! Marshall! Eyes on your tasks, you dogs, or I'll have you hauled up before the gratings! _Run out!"_

It was a sorry end to a drill that had begun so prettily, but with curses and threats, Bush eventually bullied the gun crews back into good order, the midshipmen and bosun wading in among the men as necessary. It required five more broadsides before Bush was satisfied that discipline had been re-established, and he gave the men a final tongue-lashing about duty under fire before ordering the guns be secured.

At last he had the liberty to turn and look: Hornblower had left the deck.

"He's with Wallis," Prowse said quietly, and Bush's stomach sank.

"Did you see that?" Cheeseman asked Orrock, passing close by Bush. "A whole rosebud, by god."

Bush turned on the two young gentlemen with a fury to match Hornblower's. "The captain's illness is no concern of yours!" he bellowed, and the two stiffened to attention, their eyes on the distant horizon. "Now see to your divisions!"

"Sorry, sir, aye aye, sir," they chanted, and scurried off to their duties.

"Captain's compliments, sir," Cummings said at Bush's elbow, and Bush turned. "When the drill is finished and the guns are secured, will you send the hands to breakfast and come see him in his cabin."

"My respects to the captain, and I'll be with him in five minutes," Bush replied.

It was as well for the gun captains that the lashings were as they should be; worried for the captain and still smarting from his own rebuke, Bush was in no mood to be tolerant of others' errors. With no one to berate for inattention to his duty, it was only three minutes before Bush was at Hornblower's door.

"Come," Hornblower called, and the irascibility in the single word was a comfort to Bush, even though Bush knew it boded ill for him personally.

Hornblower sat at his desk, chart and timetable before him. He looked up and glared at Bush, and Bush, never a coward, took the bull by the horns.

"I wish to apologise, sir, for my lapse during gun drill."

Hornblower only scowled more fiercely. There were two bright spots of pink in his cheeks, which only made his pallor stand out more. "That can't happen again, Mr Bush. Never again, I tell you!"

"No, sir."

"If we meet the _Loire,_ we can't have the men thinking their officers are weak or distracted. You know this, Mr Bush."

"Yes, sir."

"You cannot let my illness be a distraction, I tell you. Did you ever know Captain Keene, of the _Justinian?_ No? The _Justinian_ was my first ship, back in '94. Captain Keene was a good captain once, but by the time I knew him, he was dying—"

"Sir!" Bush protested, low. Bush was not naive — he knew how the floral disease could end, and knew, too, that death could come for anyone in a King's ship — but his soul rebelled at Hornblower comparing himself to a dying man.

"Listen to me, Mr Bush! Captain Keene was dying, a canker that was killing him by slow degrees. He was too weak from his illness to keep control of his ship, and his lieutenants too slack to do it for him. The ship was in a shocking disarray, evincing the worst abuses and ill-discipline among the men. In the midshipmen's berth alone… No, I won't speak of that. Suffice it to say that I would hate to see how the _Justinian_ fared in battle, and thank god I never had to; the accounts in the _Chronicle_ were distressing enough. I won't have that happen to the _Hotspur._ I won't, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Bush replied, chastened.

"I won't have you treating me as weak before the men, and I won't have you behaving as if my illness is of the least consequence. There should never be any question of whether this ship is under the guidance of a strong hand. If I should fall, to illness or in battle, I need you to not show the least sympathy or hesitation before assuming control, do you hear me? Step over my body if you have to, but if the _Hotspur_ can't have a strong captain, she will damn well have a strong lieutenant!"

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir," Bush said, feeling profoundly miserable.

"And you can wipe that look off your face, Mr Bush, I'm not dying yet."

"No, sir." Prudence counselled him to leave it at that, but the urge to speak was too strong. "It's only that I worry, sir. You've been pushing yourself very hard, and you're not as well as you should be. You're thinner than I've ever known you—"

But Hornblower had held up a hand. He looked distinctly green around the gills; Bush dropped his eyes and waited for him to master his nausea.

"I'm well enough, Mr Bush," Hornblower finally said, but he breathed shallowly, giving the impression of a man who only just had his stomach under control. "Fit enough for command, in any case, and that's all that should concern you. Or are you questioning my ability to command?" The last question was sharp.

"No, sir!" Bush protested, scandalised.

Hornblower watched him narrowly; perhaps he was remembering that Bush had conspired to mutiny once. But that was an entirely different circumstance: in his paranoia, Captain Sawyer had actively undermined discipline and order, weakening his ship in his attempts to protect his position. Hornblower, as ill as he might be, placed his duty to his ship first, far before any mere personal considerations. There could be no comparison between Captains Sawyer and Hornblower: if Bush knew anything about it, Hornblower would be fit for command unto his dying breath.

"Then I won't have you give the men the impression that I am not fit to command, is that understood, Mr Bush?"

"Yes, sir," Bush said, daring to breathe again.

"That will be all, Mr Bush," Hornblower said.

"Aye aye, sir," Bush said, and took advantage of the opportunity to flee.

Bush never again made the error of showing concern for his captain in public: on the quarterdeck, sometimes an attack would take Hornblower with enough severity to produce another rosebud, but Bush only stood there impassively, like a creature made of stone, waiting for the fit to pass. But feigning such an unfeeling front was torture: his soul ached with the need to comfort and protect his captain, a need for which he had no outlet. None but to do as his captain wished: demonstrate to the crew and other officers that there was no division in the _Hotspur's_ leadership, and likewise that there was still a firm hand running the ship. Bush was a taut officer at the best of times, and so it could hardly be said that as Hornblower's illness progressed Bush became more exacting than he had been before. But nevertheless, as Hornblower became weaker, he was less able to rein Bush in, and the _Hotspur_ came to operate with an unfeelingly brutal efficiency.

And Hornblower indeed was growing weaker. Bush had ample opportunity to observe the fact, for Hornblower seemed to feel his own mortality pressing on him, and he consequently drew Bush into his confidences. He did not seek Bush's counsel — Hornblower's weakness was entirely physical, and he still executed _Hotspur's_ mission with a ferocious, unwavering tenacity — but in the privacy of his cabin he no longer simply gave Bush his orders, but meticulously laid out the logic behind them in exacting detail, so that Bush, too, might understand why Hornblower gave the orders he did and extemporise accordingly, should the occasion demand it. It was a privilege to be so trusted, to be allowed to see the workings of Hornblower's mind, the concerns he balanced on a knife-edge, and Bush knew, too, that if he ever attained a command of his own, he would be a better captain for the apprenticeship. But Bush also knew with chilling certainty that had Hornblower been healthier, he would never have permitted it.

In August, Hornblower was summoned aboard the _Tonnant._ Although Bush waited patiently, no orders were revised on the basis of that meeting, nor new orders issued, and Hornblower said nothing about what had passed there. Nevertheless, gossip in the squadron was pernicious, and Bush could easily guess the nature of the business that had taken Hornblower to the _Tonnant:_ Commodore Pellew had heard of Hornblower's illness, and wished to assess Hornblower's condition for himself.

Pellew must have been satisfied with Hornblower's accounting of himself, for no new commander arrived to replace him. It was as well, Bush thought: the _Hotspur_ still ran efficiently under Hornblower's leadership, and Bush could not believe that Hornblower would prosper as a convalescent. A year ashore in Portsmouth had not cured Hornblower of the briar; there was no reason to believe that time ashore now would serve Hornblower any better, except perhaps to be less of a tax on his strength. But Hornblower would not wish to linger uselessly ashore; he would prefer to be here, however much it taxed him, with his beloved _Hotspur._

But oh, how Bush wished that _Hotspur_ was Hornblower's only beloved! Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the middle watch, Bush would think on the brutally unfeeling object of Hornblower's affection, and wish upon them the same slow death to which they had apparently consigned Hornblower.

For as September passed, Hornblower appeared to be dying by inches. He struggled on, tenacious, and yet the cough grew steadily worse.

In the last days of that halcyon summer, Dr Wallis asked Martin and Huffnell to give him the gunroom, so that he might have a private word with Bush. The two men went, but not without turning curious, calculating eyes on Bush as they went.

"The captain is very ill," Wallis said, once they were alone. "Gravely ill. He may yet recover if the cause of illness is removed, but I fear the situation is becoming desperate."

"I see," Bush said.

"I have tried to leave this matter well enough alone, Mr Bush, but my medical conscience dictates that I say something. I must insist that you stop dithering and act."

Bush stiffened, stern and forbidding. "Act how? I trust you're not suggesting that he's unfit for command."

"I'm suggesting that if you can't bring yourself to relieve the captain's suffering more directly, then you could at least have consideration for a man's life and request a transfer to another ship."

Bush stared at Wallis in confusion and some irritation. "More directly?"

"Oh, come now, don't tell me you don't know! Just who do you think he is pining for?"

Bush stiffened. "The captain has never confided in me."

Wallis muttered a curse. "He's pining for you. The entire ship knows it, Mr Bush, why don't you?"

Bush laughed, bitter. Bush had offered himself to Hornblower in Portsmouth, and it had proven no remedy to his suffering. "Believe me, doctor, if I was the cause of his troubles, he'd be cured by now." He stood to leave, but Wallis took his arm.

"Request a transfer, Mr Bush," Wallis urged. "If you care for a man's life at all — if you care for this ship at all! — get off this ship."

Bush shook himself free. "You're mistaken, doctor. The only thing the captain wants from me is that I run his ship for him, and that's what I am doing. I won't abandon him, and especially not now."

Wallis shook his head pityingly. "May God have pity on you both, Mr Bush."

Bush only looked coldly at Dr Wallis. "Good day, doctor."

Unfortunately, it seemed the conversation between Wallis and Bush had not been so private as all that, because the atmosphere in the gunroom turned distinctly chilly afterwards, the conversation dying to nothing whenever Bush entered the room. The ill-feeling even seemed to spread to the crew: as the primary enforcer of the captain's law, Bush did not expect to be loved by the men, but never before had he been the object of so many black looks and so much muttering. No one called him a Jonah to his face, but the feeling was clearly there. Bush had greater concerns than his popularity, however. The _Hotspur_ still had her mission, and as her captain grew weaker, Bush was fully occupied with keeping the _Hotspur_ diligently to her task. Fortunately for everyone, the ship ran on discipline, not love, and the men continued to do their duty, however much they muttered.

But however wrong Wallis might have been about the source of Hornblower's sufferings, he was correct about their severity: a week later, during the first storm of the Equinox, over a consultation in Hornblower's cabin about the re-watering of the _Hotspur,_ Hornblower was taken by as violent a coughing fit as Bush had ever seen. Doubled over from the violence of it, he lost his footing, and Bush hastily stepped forward and caught him around the waist. Hornblower was entirely consumed by the deep, wracking coughs that tore at him, leaving him a dead weight in Bush's arms, and making Bush stagger as the _Hotspur_ rolled. Bush eased them both to the decking, unable to reach chair or cot with his burden. And still Hornblower coughed. Bush watched in grief and horror as Hornblower produced not an unopened bud — those having become almost a commonplace occurrence by now — but a perfect bloom, its petals fully open and reeking of death.

"Christ, sir! How long…?"

But Hornblower was still coughing. He produced a second bloom, and a third, and Bush's own heart broke.

Finally the cough ended, and still Hornblower clung to Bush, sobbing for breath, while Bush bent protectively over his captain. They sat like that, Hornblower half-reclining in Bush's arms, Hornblower's face turned against Bush's shoulder, until Hornblower's breathing slowed and came more naturally. Shame-faced, Hornblower tried to sit up and draw away, but Bush caught Hornblower's face in his hands, and his lips in a kiss.

Hornblower stiffened and pulled away, staring at Bush in shock.

"I know it's not me you long for, sir," Bush said in a rush, still cradling Hornblower's face, "but you can't keep on like this, sir. You can't. Three blossoms…! Christ, Horatio! Sir!" And then he pressed his mouth to Hornblower's again, hard and desperate.

This time the kiss lasted a full second, two seconds, Hornblower's fingers reluctantly curling in the fabric of Bush's uniform, before Hornblower jerked his head away, panting.

"The briar can't be cheated with a… with a _facsimile_ of love," Hornblower gritted out, his voice hoarse and rough.

"I'm as sincere as I've ever been, sir," Bush avowed. "I know you have no feelings for me, but whoever you pine for is cold and unfeeling and doesn't deserve your love, sir. Please, try. Have me instead, who does love you and esteem you. Please, sir."

Hornblower stared at Bush, searching his face, and for a moment it seemed to Bush as if Hornblower's breath did come easier. But then his expression shifted, his chest seizing again. He fisted the shoulder of Bush's jacket tight and bent his head, his breath strangling in the twining clutches of the briar.

"Sir!" Bush cried softly, for now that the floodgates of feeling were open, he could not contain their waters. He bent his head over Hornblower's, and pressed kisses to his temple, his hair. "Sir…! Breathe! Please, sir."

Hornblower battled to bring his breath under his own control again, and Bush ached to hear the struggle. At last Hornblower lifted his head, although his breath still came short in his lungs. "Stop this now," he ordered. "You're killing me, Bush."

But Bush was too stubborn to give in. "No, sir. I won't, sir. You're already dying, sir, and I won't stand aside and watch it happen. Not when I might stop it. I _won't,_ sir." And so saying, he put a hand beneath Hornblower's chin, as if meaning to kiss him again.

But Hornblower drew back a half-inch, and Bush, unable to press himself where he was not wanted, stopped where he was. They held like that, their eyes fixed on each other, Hornblower's wary and Bush's entreating.

"Please sir," Bush pleaded. "If you won't have me for myself, sir, then have me for the _Hotspur's_ sake, I beg you."

Still Hornblower examined him. Bush leaned in again, and when Hornblower did not withdraw, Bush kissed him tenderly, agonisingly heartfelt.

For a few seconds, Hornblower seemed to only tolerate the kiss, then he gave a sob, his mouth opening under Bush's, his hand pulling on the shoulder of Bush's jacket, as if to keep Bush from withdrawing. But Bush only held Hornblower more tightly, holding him firmly as he kissed Hornblower with all the pent-up care and passion in him.

They kissed so, Hornblower clinging to Bush like a drowning man, while Bush, desperate to provide a palliative for Hornblower's affliction, tried to convince Hornblower of his devotion. Finally Hornblower broke away on a gasp, and Bush gathered him closer, pressing kisses into his skin.

"For _Hotspur's_ sake, you said," Hornblower said, and it was clear he was struggling to breathe again, fighting against the briar.

Bush put a broad hand on Hornblower's chest, trying to help his breath along by will alone. "Yes, sir. Have me for _Hotspur's_ sake," he agreed, but to his dismay, he felt Hornblower's chest convulse — heard Hornblower cry out, as the briar strangled Hornblower's lungs.

Horrified but what he had apparently done, Bush tried to pull away, but Hornblower grabbed his collar and dragged him back. "God _damn_ this briar," Hornblower wheezed. "Why can't I… just for _once…_ " he pleaded, and Bush ached for the despair in his voice.

"Breathe, sir," Bush urged.

"I _am_ breathing, damn your eyes!" But the effort of the curse cost Hornblower, and it was another minute before he had the breath to speak again. Bush caressed him gently, trying to soothe the breath back into his lungs, while Hornblower clung to Bush's collar, refusing to let him retreat.

When he could breathe again, he pulled Bush down into another kiss, this one bruising with its intensity. "I _will_ have you, damn it, even if it kills me."

It seemed as if it might, for Hornblower was seized with another cough, convulsing in Bush's arms. Bush pressed his face into Hornblower's shoulder as he waited for it to pass. When it did, Bush kissed him again; this time, Hornblower's breath was heavy with roses.

"Here, sir, allow me," Bush said. The cot was too far away and too narrow; he stripped off his jacket to make a pillow for Hornblower. "Just lie here, sir, and let me…" He lowered himself down next to Hornblower, meaning to embrace him tenderly.

But Hornblower was in no mood to be coddled and petted. He pushed Bush over onto his back and swung a leg over him. "I will have you," Hornblower hissed, almost ferocious in his intensity, before he kissed Bush again; Bush arched underneath his captain's body to be handled so. Hornblower's hands went to the fall of Bush's breeches, all hard fingers and bony knuckles, and then he was drawing out the length of Bush's cock, stroking it as it filled and hardened. Bush's eyes fell shut as his blood quickened.

"Sir!" he cried out, and a hand covered Bush's mouth.

"Shhh," Hornblower urged him, and then the hand was replaced with Hornblower's mouth. Bush embraced him, pulling him close, but he couldn't bring him close enough. Bush arched up into him, wanting to feel the entirety of Hornblower's length against him, Hornblower's groin pressed to his own.

"Sir, let me, please," he whispered, and felt Hornblower shudder in his arms. But this time it was a shudder of only passion, not distress. Bush thrust hard into Hornblower's hand. "Please, sir."

"Anything, William," Hornblower said, and so Bush put a hand to the back of Hornblower's head, and timing it with the roll of the _Hotspur,_ he heaved them both over, Hornblower clutching hard at him as he went.

Bush was lying between Hornblower's legs now, one of Hornblower's legs hooked around his. Bush rocked his hips against Hornblower's, feeling Hornblower hard in his own trousers. Hornblower's hands went to Bush's arse, and he pulled Bush in again, lifting his hips to thrust himself against Bush's cock. Bush propped himself up on one elbow and eagerly reached for Hornblower's fall, more gently than Hornblower had done to Bush, undoing his buttons, searching out his prick. Then Hornblower's cock was in his hand, hot and hard and silken, and Bush moaned at the feel of it. He laid his own cock alongside it, thrusting along its length, squeezing them together in his hand.

Hornblower surged up to kiss him, and Bush's head swam with it, the feel of Hornblower's mouth against his, Hornblower's cock against his, Hornblower's entire body straining to meet him. Bush's hand sped on their cocks, and Hornblower groaned into his mouth.

"Tell me you love me, William," Hornblower whispered against his mouth. "Just this once, tell me…"

"I love you, sir," Bush said without hesitation, the desperate need in him cutting through any reticence he might have felt. "I love you."

But something went horribly wrong then, for Hornblower suddenly twisted under him, shoving desperately at his shoulders, gasping for breath. In a panic, Bush rolled off Hornblower, and Hornblower rolled away from Bush into a protective curl, hacking convulsively. But the attack was too fierce: Hornblower was forced to claw his way up to knees and elbows, back hunched like a sick dog as he coughed and gagged. He produced petals at first, far too many petals, scattering across the cabin decking, and then another full blossom.

Bush gazed at it, sick at heart.

At last Hornblower sat back on his heels, breathing heavily, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Leave me," he said, not looking at Bush.

"Sir," Bush protested helplessly.

"Leave me, I said! Do you hear me!?" Still Hornblower would not look at him.

Bush reached for his jacket where it was crumpled on the floor; blood-red petals clung to its sleeve. "Aye aye, sir," Bush said, and hurrying to make himself presentable again, fled into the wind and wet outside the cabin.

The next days passed in a tempest of misery and guilt, Bush buffeted by his feelings as severely as the _Hotspur_ was buffeted by the storm. Hornblower was too ill to appear on deck and only barely tolerated having Bush in his cabin; instead, midshipmen ran messages between the aft cabin and the quarterdeck, conveying the captain's compliments and Mr Bush's respects. Bush's duties and the demands of the storm should have occupied him fully, but he was plagued by the memory of Hornblower's desperate mouth under Bush's, the ferocity in Hornblower's eyes as he pushed Bush back against the decking… Something twined and twisted in Bush, making him ill with yearning, even despite his guilt.

The nausea that dogged him as the _Hotspur_ pitched and yawed was an unfamiliar sensation: Bush had always had a strong stomach, one that withstood all weathers. But Bush resolutely ignored his physical misery; he was not given to thinking overmuch of his own comfort, and with the galley fires extinguished, there was no point to appetite in any case, as there was no food to be had but ship's biscuit. Too, Bush was more preoccupied with Hornblower's comfort: Hornblower, who had already been so ill before Bush's unwanted attempt at succor; Hornblower, now unable to leave his cabin. Bush stood his watches, kept the men at the pumps, pushed aside the memory of Hornblower straddling him, determined to have him, and did not notice that it had been four days since he had last properly eaten.

Finally the storm broke in the forenoon watch, although the respite looked to be only a brief one, the wind pushing ahead of it the great rollers coming in from the Atlantic. During the lull, Hornblower emerged from his cabin to take his usual station at the quarterdeck weather rail. With a feeling of profound relief, Bush touched his hat and crossed to the lee. Hornblower on his feet at last — how Bush rejoiced to see that! Yet he was still gray with illness, and moved with an uncertainty that spoke more of determination than strength. Nevertheless, Hornblower consulted the binnacle and the slate, conferred with the master, examined the rigging and the set of the sails… Bush would have been a good deal more pleased, if only the _Hotspur_ wasn't twisting so abominably.

"Mr Bush," Hornblower said, turning to summon him—

Bush lunged for the rail, bringing up that morning's breakfast.

But Bush had not breakfasted that morning.

Nor should his breakfast have tasted of roses.

Shutting his eyes, he plucked the last petal from his mouth, and turned to accept his fate.

Everyone on the quarterdeck was staring at him, but it was Hornblower's eyes in particular, wide with surprise and shock, that demanded his attention. Gradually Hornblower's surprise passed away, grief creeping over his expression, and Bush dropped his own eyes, so as not to have to meet that gaze.

The _Hotspur_ climbed a wave, gyved at the crest, and slid down into the trough on the other side.

Her nose lifted to greet the next wave, and Hornblower cleared his throat.

"Mr Bush," he said.

This time, Bush crossed to the weather rail without event.

It was a parody of a conversation, Hornblower's eyes full of questions he did not ask as the two of them discussed _Hotspur_ and the preparations for the brewing storm. It was just as well Hornblower did not ask them; Bush hardly knew how he would have answered, blindsided as he was by his own body's betrayal. He had never been prone to the floral disease, not even as a spotty midshipman. That he was pining for Hornblower was obvious: was obvious to him now, should have been obvious before, and was probably obvious to every man on deck. It was obvious as well, at least to Bush, that the illness was unlikely to pass with time: it was ludicrous to think that in a matter of weeks or months, a midshipman would wake him for his watch and Bush would find that he was not as devoted to Hornblower as he was now. The question only was how quickly the disease would progress, and how much it might come to impair his duties.

Because that was the rub: Hornblower desperately needed a strong and reliable lieutenant, one that was not compromised by illness. Given the choice, Bush would not abandon Hornblower. But if the disease progressed quickly, it was a choice he may not get to make.

And still Hornblower _looked_ at him, his face naked with emotion, while they discussed the galley fires.

At last Hornblower dismissed him, and Bush returned to the lee rail, passing word for the cook to make good on Hornblower's orders. Only a few minutes later, Hornblower retired to his cabin again. As Hornblower passed by, Bush could not help but notice how gray and drawn he looked, and the thorny thing in Bush's stomach twisted violently.

The new storm looked to blow for days. Bush stood watch-and-watch, his foul weather gear never drying between one time he put it on and the next. In the normal run of things Bush had little rest during a storm, but this was worst than most: his first three watches below were spent curled around a bucket and retching his heart out, courtesy of Dr Wallis' emetics. The effort was in vain: he produced many petals, but nothing that could be called a briar.

"That's quick for it to root," Wallis had said as he palpated Bush's stomach, the lamps of the cockpit swinging on their gimbals as the _Hotspur_ tossed. "Usually if we catch it early…"

Bush did not deign to answer: his affliction was an old one, even if the infection was not. He had been Hornblower's man since at least Portsmouth, and likely before that, if he cared to think about it. It hardly mattered now. What mattered was becoming well again, so that he could continue serving Hornblower and the _Hotspur._

"There are better treatments than emetics," Wallis said, with a glint in his eye that Bush did not care for. "Old Horny, is it? I'm giving you my best medical advice, Mr Bush: take him aside, declare your heart, and be done with this damn fool business. Cure the both of you in one stroke."

Bush reached for his shirt. "The captain has loved another since I first met him in 1800," he said, and pulled his shirt over his head. He remembered the _Renown_ as clearly as yesterday: Hornblower, younger and more open, so brilliant and shiningly eager, but always with that petal-stained handkerchief in his pocket.

When Bush emerged from his shirt again, Wallis was looking at him with exasperation. "I ought to get Mayne to sew you into a hammock together. It'd be medically justified, the way you two are going."

"It'd also be mutiny," Bush responded without humour, doing up his waistcoat.

"Old Horny would be too busy thanking me to hang me," Wallis replied, as incorrigible as all medical men.

"You won't bother the captain about any of this," Bush warned, reaching for his jacket.

"I think you'll find the captain bothers about exactly what he pleases. And these past days, he's been most concerned for his lieutenant."

That took Bush badly, the thought that Hornblower had been worrying about Bush's ability to perform his duty, and he caught at the bulkhead, gagging, as the briar twisted violently in his stomach.

"Christ," he swore, and spat a last petal into the bucket Wallis held for him. "How does Hornblower stand it?"

Wallis patted Bush's back, not unkindly. "He's a braver man than you know. More bull-headed, too, to his sorrow. For the love of god, Bush, show him some pity and speak to him."

Bush shook his head. "Just give me another round of ipecacuanha, and I'll be fine."

"No, no more for you. If it hasn't done its work by now, it's not going to. Better for you to get some sleep — what has it been now, twenty-four hours? And then for the sake of everyone condemned to this benighted tub, please, I'm begging you, speak to the captain."

But what was the point of speaking to Hornblower? Bush had already declared his most devout affection, but rather than curing Hornblower of what ailed him, it had only brought on another, more severe attack.

Bush caught what sleep he could during the remainder of his watch below, before re-donning still-wet oilskins and relieving Mr Prowse on the storm-swept quarterdeck. Before the watch was finished, Foreman brought Bush the captain's compliments and a request to come to his cabin when his watch was finished.

"My respects to the captain, and I'll see him at eight bells," Bush shouted over the wind, and Foreman scurried off, sliding on the wet decks, to carry the message.

Bush was chilled and wet through, half-drunk with fatigue and exhaustion: he had had only three hours' sleep in the past twenty-eight. But the problem of keeping his footing on the wet decks was at least some diversion from his troubles. It occurred to him that he ought to take his own best remedy and set himself to hauling lines and reefing canvas. Hard labour in the tops — at peril of his life, given the intensity of the storm — might do him more good than Wallis's potions. But that was the fatigue addling him. Hornblower had topmen aplenty; it was a lieutenant he needed. Hornblower would not thank Bush if he lost his grip in the storm and dashed out his brains on the deck. But still Bush wished for simple hard labour, the better to put aside the persistent memory of Hornblower clutching the shoulder of Bush's uniform while they kissed.

Eight bells rang at last, and Prowse came to relieve Bush for the first dog watch. Bush made his report, officially turned over the ship to Prowse, and went below to the captain's cabin.

"Come," Hornblower called, and Bush, wet and dripping, let himself into the tiny cabin.

"Sir."

The lighting was bad: the storm had brought dusk early, and Hornblower's lantern did little against the gloom, its shadows swinging wildly around the cabin. Hornblower thankfully looked no worse than he had before the storm, but still there was that drawn and gray look about him, as well as that unnatural air to his carriage, as if he held himself up by will alone. Bush ached to see him so.

"How are you, Bush?" Hornblower asked, his voice gentle with concern, and the unlooked-for kindness from his captain prompted a surge of nausea as the briar twisted in Bush's stomach. "You don't look well."

"I'm fit enough, sir. Nothing a few hours' sleep won't cure," Bush replied staunchly.

But Hornblower was studying him doubtfully. "Wallis said the emetics failed."

"So he says, sir," Bush said, but his voice conveyed his opinions about the pronouncements of medical men, at least where the person of William Bush was concerned. "I might try another round after I've slept." Drinking seawater would serve well enough, if Wallis continued to be stingy with his potions.

Hornblower bit his lip — he was clearly unhappy with that answer. "Who is it, Bush?" Then, when Bush hesitated, he pressed, "Someone on this ship, I take it?"

"Yes, sir," Bush reluctantly admitted.

Hornblower nodded and ducked his head. "Have you declared yourself?"

The memory of Hornblower in this very cabin only a week before, clinging to him, kissing him, begging for Bush's love—

Bush only just managed to turn aside before he was coughing up petals. When he turned back, Hornblower had half come around his desk, his expression a picture of agonised misery. Silence reigned.

"Pardon, sir," Bush said shamefacedly.

"Speak to him, Bush," Hornblower urged, and Bush shook his head curtly.

"I already have, sir."

"And he denied you? Give me his name, and I'll speak for you."

It was a cruel parody of solicitude, and Bush could have shouted to the heavens that his declaration had meant so little to Hornblower that he could not even remember it now. "No, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps—"

"He loves another, sir," Bush said, in desperate need for this conversation to be over.

Hornblower nodded, drawing back to lean against his desk, his shoulders hunched into himself. There was another awkward silence.

"When the weather clears, I'll send to the Commodore, and ask him to find you another berth in the squadron," Hornblower said.

"A transfer! Sir!"

"Wallis says he can do nothing for you, and if there's no other, more direct remedy available…"

"Sir, but you need me here!" The thought of leaving Hornblower now, of entrusting him to the care of a man who did not love him half so well, who might not exercise himself nearly so much on Hornblower's behalf… It was intolerable, and the injustice of it burned in Bush.

"The Commodore will find a good place for you," Hornblower went on callously. "He'll do that much for me."

"Sir, I wish to stay here."

"Listen to reason, man!" Hornblower snapped at him. "Do you think I want to watch you become _this?"_ He gestured at himself. "Perhaps time and distance will cure what medicine cannot. But I would have you safely away while I can still do something for you, William. I won't have you trapped here after I'm no longer—"

But a fit overtook him then, and the rest of his speech was lost in a violent spasm of coughing. "Get back!" he ordered, when Bush stepped forward to help him. Bush stepped back again and watched helplessly as the fit wracked Hornblower's thin frame; where the strength for the fit came from, Bush did not know.

At last Hornblower was still. With exhaustion in every movement, he folded and put his handkerchief away. He did not permit Bush to glimpse its contents.

"Sir," Bush protested again, but more quietly. "Respectfully, sir, I wish to stay with you."

Hornblower shut his eyes, as if the very protest pained him. "I won't hear another word about it, Mr Bush. I'm requesting a transfer for you, as soon as the weather permits it. Now leave my cabin."

"But sir—"

"Did you hear me, Mr Bush?"

Bush bit back his grief and disappointment. "Yes, sir. I'll send for Dr Wallis for you, sir."

"No need," Hornblower said. "I just need to rest. Now leave me be, please."

"Yes, sir," Bush said. The briar twisted violently within him, but thankfully, he was able to contain his retching until he had closed the cabin door behind him and gained the looard rail.

The storm lasted another miserable day, in which Bush saw nothing of Hornblower. Bush had always enjoyed dirty weather, but this storm seemed to hold the seed of Bush's doom within it — or perhaps it was only the unfamiliar sensation of persistent nausea that poisoned it for him, nausea from the briar on the one hand and the seawater Bush forced himself to drink on the other. He was determined not to be sent away, determined to cure himself with or without Wallis's help, but nothing Bush attempted could expel the briar. When the skies finally cleared, Bush received with exhausted, red-eyed defeat his captain's compliments and the order for dispatches to be sent to the _Tonnant._ Bush did his duty, duly sending Orrock in the longboat, but for once in his life Bush found no satisfaction in his duty.

The next storm swept in too quickly for Orrock to return; Foreman only just had time to read the signal from _Tonnant_ — _Hotspur's_ longboat was being kept until the storm passed — before the descending weather obscured the flagship's maintop from view.

This new storm was as fierce as the two that preceded it, and Bush lived on borrowed time, standing watch and watch with Prowse, keeping _Hotspur_ beating into the wind to ensure enough sea room between her and the shore. It was exacting, exhausting work, although moreso for the crew, who had barely had a break from the pumps between storms, than it was for the officers.

Four watches into the new storm and not long after dawn — not that dawn could be discerned through the storm clouds — Bush was accosted on deck by Wallis.

"What have you done?" Wallis demanded over the wind.

"My duty, I hope," Bush replied. "Or do you have a more specific complaint?"

"What is this about a transfer, you idiot?"

Bush's jaw set, misery roiling in his stomach. So his transfer was public knowledge now. "Not my idea, I assure you."

"I hope you know it's killing the captain! He might have had the strength to survive your transfer before, but he doesn't now!"

Fear gripped Bush. "The captain…! What's wrong with the captain?"

"What do you _think_ is wrong with the captain?" Wallis exclaimed in exasperation. "You must come now, before this goes any further!"

But Bush had already summoned Cummings, the midshipman of the watch. "Pass word for Mr Prowse," he ordered. "Get him up here immediately! Mr Cargill! The ship is yours until Mr Prowse arrives. If you have her on the rocks, I'll see you hung, do you hear me?"

"Aye aye, sir," Cargill said, eyes wide.

With a last threatening glare for Cargill, Bush strode for the companionway, Wallis close on his heels. "How is he?" Bush asked the doctor.

Now that they were out of the wind, Wallis's voice was hushed out of respect for the ill, but there was no less intensity in his voice for all that. "Dying, or close to it. I swear to god, this is no time for whatever lies you've been telling yourself. I'll see you tried for murder if you don't make this right, Mr Bush."

But Bush had heard almost nothing after the first few words. _Dying. Hornblower was dying._ Bush's heart thudded in his chest.

For a moment, the marine sentry looked as if he intended to bar Bush's entry to the aft cabin, but under Bush's murderous glare — or perhaps a gesture from Wallis behind him — the sentry stepped aside.

The cabin was dark, the curtains with their hand-painted primroses and cowslips drawn tightly against what little dawnlight filtered through the stormclouds. Even from the door, Bush could hear Hornblower's breath, whistling in his inflamed lungs.

"For the love of god, leave me be, Wallis," Hornblower said, his voice thin and weak, but still holding an echo of its old irascibility.

"It's not Dr Wallis, sir."

"Bush!"

The shadowed figure in the cot stirred and tried to sit up, and Bush rushed forward to press him back again. "Lie still, sir, please."

"You're dripping on me," Hornblower complained, and Bush stepped back to unbutton his oilskin and his pea jacket under it, letting both fall to the floor. "I told Dr Wallis not to disturb you, damn him to hell," Hornblower said, labouring for breath. "Whose watch is it?"

"Mine, sir," Bush said, aching that Hornblower had lost track of even that.

"Who—?"

"I called Mr Prowse to relieve me, sir. He'll be on deck in a moment, and in the meanwhile Mr Cargill has the watch."

Hornblower's breath was loud in Bush's ears, terrible to hear.

"Have we heard from the _Tonnant?"_

"No, sir. The storm is still blowing strong, and _Tonnant_ is still holding our boat." But at the mention of the _Tonnant,_ the feeling in Bush became too great, and he took up Hornblower's hand, thin and white, from where it lay on the daffodil-painted coverlet. Bush's own hands were chilled through from standing watch in the storm, but it seemed to him that Hornblower's hand was also cold. "Please don't send me away, sir."

"Bush…" Hornblower's breath was awful to hear, and he coughed weakly.

The cabin's sole chair already stood near the cot, and Bush sank into it, the better to bend himself over Hornblower's hand. He caressed it tenderly in his. "Please, sir. Now is not the time for you to break in a new lieutenant, sir. If I've been unsatisfactory, then tell me, so I may remedy it. But I beg you, let me…" He pressed a desperate kiss to Hornblower's fingers. "Let me stay with you until the end. Please, sir."

"William, my dear friend." Hornblower reached for Bush's face, and Bush pressed those beautiful, chilled fingers to his cheek. "I'd like nothing better. But I won't have you—"

Another cough overtook him, this one more violent than the first, and Hornblower gripped Bush's hand with sudden strength. The cough proved too difficult to endure lying prone, and Bush put an arm around him to help support him as he wheezed for breath.

"Shh, sir, don't speak, save your strength."

"Damn you, I'll speak—" Hornblower managed, before his body rebelled again. It was agonising to listen to his attempts to breathe, to the ominous sound of foliage rustling in his lungs. He coughed again, and spat out a rosebud. Bush only held him tighter.

Finally Hornblower lay quiet again, panting heavily, his breath whistling in his chest. Still Bush held him close.

"William. I won't have you trapped… with a shipmate who doesn't… return your love," Hornblower said, labouring for enough breath to speak the words. "And my window to prevent that… is rapidly closing."

"Sir, it won't matter a damn where I am, whether I'm on _Hotspur_ or the _Tonnant_ or some leaky tub of a coaster."

"William…"

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing you can do to prevent me from pining for you after you're gone." Again he kissed Hornblower's hand, and pressed it to his cheek. "Let me stay, sir, please, I beg you."

"Loyal William. You think that now… But to look at your beloved's face every day…"

"Do you not hear me, sir?" Bush asked, his voice with tight with frustration. "I won't be able to look at my beloved's face, because you'll be dead, sir."

Hornblower made no reply, but he stiffened in Bush's embrace, and his breath seemed less steady than before.

"Let me stay here with you," Bush pleaded. "A new lieutenant would not love you half so well, nor work for you a quarter so hard. Please, sir."

Hornblower shook his head weakly. "There's no need for this, Bush. I'm dying. Isn't that enough, without lies, too?"

"What lies? Do you doubt my sincerity, sir? Isn't it enough that the entire ship has seen me retching up petals for you?"

"William…!"

"I know you don't feel the same, sir. I don't expect—" Bush choked, and had to pause to gather himself again. "If you've ever felt any regard for me, sir, please, sir, let me stay. Sending me away now would be a cruelty, not a kindness."

Hornblower reached for Bush's face. He touched his cheek, exploring that craggy visage, and found the tracks of Bush's tears. "William," he breathed.

Bush shook his head, beyond speech.

"William, light a lamp for me."

"Yes, sir," Bush replied, and easing Hornblower back onto his pillow, Bush went to fumble with lamp and tinderbox. The weak light filtering through the curtains helped some, but Bush's hands were not particularly steady. At last he had the lamp hung in its gimbals, the wick turned down low.

"Brighter than that," Hornblower said, and Bush obeyed. "And the curtains, too."

The curtains allowed a little more light into the gloom of the cabin. Hornblower looked so frail in his cot.

"Come here," Hornblower said, and when Bush returned, Hornblower reached for his hand, clutching it tightly.

"Tell me again," Hornblower said, looking intently at Bush's face.

"Let me stay, sir," Bush pleaded.

"No, the other… Who you pine for."

Bush closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to Hornblower's hand. "You, sir."

A hand tenderly stroked Bush's hair. "Look at me," Hornblower commanded, and Bush did. "Tell me again."

"I love you, sir," Bush said, with more conviction than before.

"Do you really?" Hornblower asked.

"I do, sir."

It seemed to Bush as if perhaps Hornblower's breath came a little more easily.

"You told me before you loved me," Hornblower said.

"I did, sir." Only weeks ago, and the declaration had set off this precipitous decline. The memory of it still distressed Bush.

Still Hornblower stroked Bush's hair, smoothing it away from his brow, tucking a curl behind his ear. Bush closed his eyes, and let Hornblower touch him as he will.

"Kiss me," Hornblower said, tugging on Bush's hand, and Bush leaned down and did so, a brief and respectful press of his lips to Hornblower's.

"No," Hornblower said, his voice harsh. "Kiss me like you did then."

It was almost too much to ask of him, but it was Hornblower asking, and there was little Bush would not do for Hornblower. Bush kissed Hornblower again, fervent and heartfelt, feeling his heart break with it, and when Hornblower opened his mouth under Bush's, Bush gave a sob and kissed him harder.

Suddenly the kiss was indeed too much to ask, and Bush pulled away, retching, turning his head aside to spit rose petals on the cabin decking.

When he finished, Hornblower was still holding his hand. Holding his hand, and smiling at Bush's distress. Even dying, there was a contrary streak of cruelty in him. "It really is true," Hornblower said, and the smile faded as he winced in sudden pain.

"Sir?" Bush's hand tightened on Hornblower's.

But the wince passed, and the smile returned — a giddy, boyish smile, the likes of which Bush had not seen since before the _Hotspur._ He tugged on Bush's hand. "Kiss me again."

Bush could only do as he was bid; he leaned in and kissed Hornblower, trying to express all his devotion and obedience in the kiss.

Then Hornblower cried out, twisting on the cot, and Bush pulled back in alarm. Hornblower's features were contorted with pain; he turned his face into the pillow, his hand gripping Bush's tightly.

"Sir?"

"Get Wallis," Hornblower gritted out, and Bush stood — but Hornblower was still clutching his hand.

"Please, sir, let me get Dr Wallis, sir," Bush said, removing his hand from Hornblower's. He gently placed it on the daffodil-painted coverlet, but still Hornblower's fingers reached for him.

It was only two quick steps to the door.

Dr Wallis was waiting in the companionway, apparently for this very crisis. Even before Bush spoke, Wallis saw the expression on Bush's face and pushed past him to enter the cabin.

Hornblower lay on the cot, pale and rigid, his jaw set against the pain. His hand still reached for Bush.

"Get me more light," Wallis snapped, and Bush turned up the wick until the flame started to leap, then went to the door and called for a second lamp, pacing while he waited for it. When it arrived, he cursed Doughty for not bringing it quickly enough.

"Bush…!" Hornblower called out from the cot.

"Well, get over here, man!" Wallis scolded, as Bush hung the lamp.

Bush went to the cot, and when Hornblower groped for him, took Hornblower's hand again. Hornblower's grip was crushing, and Bush caressed those long, elegant fingers, trying to soothe him. "I'm here, sir. You'll be all right, sir."

Hornblower did not seem to hear.

Wallis had bared Hornblower's torso by then; Bush could count both Hornblower's ribs and the briar's writhing vines outlined in his flesh. Sweat stood out on Hornblower's skin, his muscles hard in agony.

Hornblower coughed weakly, then turned his head and spat out some leaves.

Wallis picked up a leaf and fingered it: it was yellowed and dying. "Congratulations, Mr Bush," he said drily. "You've cured him of the floral disease. Now we'll see if he lives to enjoy it."

"Cured…? Look at him!" Hornblower did not look like a man who had been cured of anything.

"The briar is dying, but it was much advanced, and it won't go quietly. If he can expel it before it decays, he might live. But it is a delicate situation, and I tell you this much, Mr Bush: until this crisis passes, you leave his side at the peril of his life."

But very little could have dragged him away from Hornblower's side just then.

The next hours were excruciating — for Hornblower, who was in obvious agony as the briar died within him; for Bush, who could do little more than hold Hornblower's hand and watch. Sometimes a fit would overtake Hornblower and with Wallis's help, he would expel a length of briar, its thorns cruel and sharp. Slowly the stinking pile of emitted briar grew, but at such cost! Bush could have wept with it. His only comfort was that Hornblower seemed hardly conscious for most of it — Hornblower's hand feebly caressing his during the relative lulls between fits was Bush's only indication that Hornblower was aware of his surroundings.

Bush was still sitting vigil, holding Hornblower's hand, when the storm blew itself out at seven bells of the forenoon watch; Bush would not have noticed, but Prowse sent his compliments to the aft cabin along with a report on the change of conditions; Bush distractedly replied with his respects and instructions to bring the _Hotspur_ closer to the mouth of the Goulet, per _Hotspur's_ standing orders. He was intensely aware that he was neglecting his duty to the ship by not going up on deck to observe conditions for himself, but even had he not been sternly warned off such an action by Wallis, he did not think he could bring himself to leave Hornblower's side. But Prowse could be trusted; his primary fault was in being too conservative with the safety of the _Hotspur,_ a fault that was no fault at all at a time like this.

At one bell into the new watch, there was another knock at the door. This time a strange lieutenant entered, a slight, elegantly dressed, tow-headed fellow bearing an expression of repressed disgust — whether it was for his involuntary presence in a sickroom or his involuntary presence on a mere sloop-of-war, Bush could not tell and did not care. Bush reluctantly released Hornblower's hand and went to meet the strange lieutenant at the door, lest he disturb Hornblower.

"Lieutenant Thomas Lineker, lately fifth of the _Tonnant,_ seconded to the _Hotspur_ by orders of Commodore Pellew," the lieutenant introduced himself. "I bear dispatches for Captain Hornblower."

This was the man meant to replace Bush; Bush hated him on sight.

"Lieutenant William Bush. The captain's indisposed. What's the date of your commission?"

"May '98," Lineker answered, and Bush felt a moment's relief: Lineker was junior to Bush.

"And I'm July '96," Bush replied. "Give the dispatches to me; I'm acting in the captain's stead for the moment. You'll stand watch and watch with Mr Prowse, the master, until further notice; Mr Orrock will introduce you and Mr Prowse will inform you of the captain's standing orders. I'll expect regular reports until the captain is well enough to receive them himself."

"Aye aye, sir," Lineker said, but he hesitated. "I understood I was to replace you," he ventured.

Wallis stepped forward. "Dr Wallis, ship's surgeon. Unfortunately, medical considerations prevent Mr Bush from leaving the _Hotspur_ at the moment."

Behind them, Hornblower moaned piteously, and Lineker looked in the direction of the cot, eyes wide.

"You can share my cabin until other arrangements are made," Bush said, snapping out the instruction.

"Bush…!" Hornblower called.

"That will be all, Mr Lineker," Bush said, and Bush hurried to his station at Hornblower's side, taking up Hornblower's hand again, caressing and kissing it. "I'm here, sir."

Hornblower appeared to be half-swooning again, and he did not respond, although the tension in his body seemed to ease somewhat at Bush's touch and words. He turned his head fitfully on the pillow.

"I'll write to the Commodore and explain matters," said Wallis, and Bush gave his agreement.

But there was still the matter of the dispatches; they might contain new orders for the _Hotspur._ Bush must write to Pellew and explain matters to him; Pellew would send new orders for Bush, or perhaps even someone to take temporary command of the _Hotspur._ But that exchange of messages and boats would require hours, and it was uncertain how long this break in the weather would last.

With reluctance, Bush broke the seal on the Commodore's dispatch.

Bush almost immediately regretted having done so: the message from the Commodore was less official business for the _Hotspur,_ and more a personal letter to a favourite subordinate. Pellew expressed concern for Hornblower's health and promised to see Bush into a good billet among the Inshore Squadron, but he also chided Hornblower for cowardice uncharacteristic of the midshipman he remembered and the officer he had come to know. Pellew urged Hornblower to be bold and declare his heart—

Bush stopped reading there, feeling profoundly guilty for having read even that much, and skimmed the rest of the letter to the end. The only official instruction in the missive was to accept Lineker into the _Hotspur,_ and in return send Bush for the _Tonnant._

Which meant that Bush must write to Pellew and explain the impossibility of coming into the _Tonnant_ now, and likewise apologise for leaving him short a lieutenant — Hornblower's illness required Bush's constant attendance, depriving the _Hotspur_ of both her captain and lieutenant. Until Hornblower improved — Bush dared not think on the other possibility — they needed Lineker's assistance.

Bush's letter to Pellew was only a few lines, and yet Hornblower stirred restlessly for the entire interval that Bush sat at Hornblower's desk, writing it. At last it was signed and sealed, wrapped together with Wallis's in oilcloth, and sent away with Orrock.

Bush returned to Hornblower's cot to take up his hand again, and again Hornblower quieted. But the quiet did not last for long; Hornblower's next fit was so violent that Bush was compelled to hold Hornblower down while Wallis probed for the next length of briar. At the end of the procedure, Hornblower seemed weaker than ever, and yet it was all repeated not a half-hour later. Bush ached to see him so, and murmured nonsensical vows and promises to him that Wallis was good enough to pretend not to hear.

At the beginning of the first dog watch, Hornblower roused sufficiently to ask fretfully after the _Hotspur._

"The _Hotspur_ is well, sir. The storm has broken, we're guarding the mouth of the Goulet. A new lieutenant has come from the _Tonnant_ to help." Bush caressed Hornblower's hand, which had become feverish with warmth.

"The _Tonnant…!"_ Hornblower exclaimed, and clutched fiercely at Bush.

"Shh, I'm here, sir. I'm staying for as long as you need me. Don't fret, sir, please, sir! Pellew would have to send his marines to drag me away."

But Pellew did not send marines. Instead, he came himself.

Orrock came to the cabin door — Bush had lost track of the changing of the watches; he only knew that it was still daylight. "Mr Lineker's respects, and there's a boat from the _Tonnant,_ sir. The commodore's aboard."

Bush swore to himself, not wishing to leave Hornblower's side. But there was no remedy for it; he could only hope that the commodore was quick. "Thank you, Orrock. I'll be on deck in a moment." Bush could already hear the bosun's pipes, calling all hands to pipe the commodore aboard. There was no time for Bush to make himself presentable; he would have to appear as he was, unshaven and still bedraggled from the previous night's storm.

As he took his place at the end of the row of sideboys, Bush spared a quick look for the state of the ship. Bush was pleased to see that Lineker was not shaming the _Hotspur_ too greatly, the hands obviously taking advantage of the clement window to make good on the damage from the storm.

Pellew gravely saluted the quarterdeck, then looked over the ship's company with a practiced eye. His eyes passed over Lineker with a small nod of recognition and landed squarely on Bush.

"Lieutenant Bush, I presume?" His eyes raked Bush, taking in the stubble on his cheeks, the damp uniform and crumpled neck-cloth.

"Yes, sir. Welcome to the _Hotspur,_ sir."

"I will see Captain Hornblower," Pellew said, unsmiling, and Bush led the way to the aft cabin.

When they entered, Hornblower was twitching and restless again, his thin hands plucking at the painted coverlet. Wallis gave Bush a meaningful look, but Bush was already crossing the few steps necessary to take Hornblower's hand. "I'm here, sir. Shh, sir, I'm here," he said quietly, caressing Hornblower's hand, and Hornblower's distress eased.

Pellew, eyebrow raised, looked at their linked hands, then at Bush, but he made no comment. He critically inspected Hornblower, who was obviously gravely ill, his face flushed with fever and dark bruises under his eyes.

Pellew turned to Wallis. "You're Dr Wallis, I presume? I received your note. How is he?"

"Not dead yet, sir," Wallis said, with all the cheerful callousness of his profession. "As long as his strength lasts, there's a chance for him."

"How much longer will this go on?"

"It's difficult to say, sir. Through the night, possibly."

"I see," Pellew said. "If there's anything you need from the _Tonnant_ or the rest of the squadron…"

"No, sir, thank you. Just Mr Bush's continued assistance. He can't be spared from this cabin."

Pellew turned his eyes on Bush again, and Bush had the impression he was being evaluated to see if he was worth all this fuss. "Of course, you have it. Mr Bush, Mr Lineker is yours for the time being, and I'm pulling the _Hotspur_ farther offshore tonight, so that you may have plenty of sea room; the _Doris_ and the _Naiad_ can guard the Goulet between them for the moment. Do you need further assistance with the _Hotspur,_ or can you manage for the night?"

"No, sir. Mr Lineker is standing my watches, and I can oversee him from here."

Again those eyes judging him. "See that you do," Pellew said at last. "Hornblower won't forgive you the loss of his ship. I'll instruct Mr Lineker to give you every obedience and effort."

"Thank you, sir," Bush said, and Pellew turned back to Hornblower.

He considered Hornblower and laid an affectionate hand on his arm. "You were one of my most stubborn, hard-headed midshipmen, Captain Hornblower. See that you remember that, in these coming hours. I'd be most grieved to see your career cut short."

Hornblower showed no sign of hearing. Still Pellew looked, before finally clearing his throat. "May I have a moment with Mr Bush, Dr Wallis?"

"Aye aye, sir," Wallis said, and stepped out of the cabin.

Again Pellew considered Bush. "I do not know whose fault it is that affairs have advanced to this sorry state. I know nothing of you, unfortunately, but I can well believe it of Hornblower — when he was my midshipman and lieutenant, he never would speak up in his own cause, even to the point of self-destruction. But I tell you this, Mr Bush: after this, I hope you show yourself worthy of his regard. That, or you will get yourself off his ship. If you do not, Hornblower will not be able to shield you, not even if he lives. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Bush replied.

Still those eyes measured Bush. At last they softened somewhat. "I wish you well, Mr Bush. If you call a midshipman for me, you may stay here with Hornblower; you need not see me piped off yourself."

Orrock was waiting just in the companionway; within a few minutes, the bosun's pipes rose to see the commodore down into his boat. But Bush did not hear, for another fit had overtaken Hornblower, and Bush and Wallis had no attention to spare for aught else.

It was a long, gruelling night, and in the lulls between Hornblower's struggles, Bush had much occasion to reflect on his sins. Pellew's threat sparked no real fear in him: if Hornblower died, Pellew's persecution would be as much as Bush deserved; if Hornblower lived, it would require no threat from the squadron's commodore to move Bush to do his utmost to be worthy of Hornblower. Bush only hoped that he might be allowed to love Hornblower as his captain best deserved; Hornblower had surely had reasons of his own for keeping Bush at a distance for so long. Bush felt no assurance that should Hornblower survive, he would treat Bush any differently.

It was hardly to be believed that Hornblower loved him. And since the _Renown,_ apparently, as unlikely as that seemed. What Bush had done then to bruise Hornblower's heart and make him keep his silence, Bush did not know, but whatever it was, it had brought them here, Hornblower at death's door and Bush desperately praying for Hornblower's salvation. Whatever Bush's error had been that had brought them here, Bush was determined not to make it twice.

But Christ! No wonder Hornblower had hesitated to bring Bush aboard the _Hotspur,_ back when he first was promoted into her; Bush's presence aboard had almost certainly furthered the growth of the briar. Bush may yet prove to be Hornblower's death sentence. All those long nights on watch when Bush had unknowingly wished slow death on the object of Hornblower's affection…! But death was as much as Bush deserved for his obliviousness and callousness.

He caressed and petted Hornblower's hand, and prayed that he would have the opportunity to do better by him.

Late during first watch, nearing midnight, Hornblower roused briefly. "You're still here," he said dreamily, stroking Bush's hand.

"Of course, sir. I won't leave you, sir."

"I might almost think you loved me, Bush," Hornblower said, and Bush wept to remember Hornblower saying the same in Portsmouth.

"I do, sir, I do, I love you—"

But another fit overtook Hornblower, and Wallis pushed Bush aside so that he could extract another thorny length of briar.

The final crisis came during the middle watch. Hornblower barely had the strength to bring up the remaining briar, his body straining futilely against the last mass of tangled thorns and vines. When it finally came, it was in one long, brutal section, its bulk choking Hornblower and stopping his lungs for long seconds. Wallis was quick and sure, as deft and speedy as if he was performing an amputation, and yet it still chilled Bush to the marrow to see Hornblower's breath frozen in his lungs. Then at last the briar's tangled rootball was free and Hornblower was breathing again, deep gasping breaths for air, his body limp on the cot.

Wallis listened to Hornblower's chest and stomach, palpating the latter. "I believe that's the last of it," he declared.

"Thank god," Bush said, heartfelt.

"Now to pray that the strain was not too much for his heart," Wallis said, and the vigil began anew.

Bush woke in the dim dawnlight to hushed voices and gentle fingers stroking his cheek, petting his stubble of beard. The _Hotspur_ swooped and fell beneath him: she was riding the great Atlantic rollers. Another storm would be sweeping in soon, if Bush was any judge of it.

"Thank you, Mr Lineker," Hornblower said, his voice terrible and ravaged, and Bush turned his head from where it had been cradled in his arms on the edge of Hornblower's cot. Hornblower was sitting half propped up with pillows, and while he was still terribly drawn, he no longer looked so gray, nor his eyes so bruised. His chest rose and fell easily, his breath reassuringly silent.

"Very good, sir," came Lineker's voice, and a door shut.

Hornblower gravely looked down at Bush, his fingers still stroking Bush's cheek. "Are you well, Bush?"

"Am I…? Sir?" Bush felt as if he had been caught flat aback.

"Are you well? Is your briar troubling you?"

"No, sir." His briar was entirely quiet; had been so, in fact, since his first realisation that Hornblower loved Bush, and not another.

"Good. Then I need not send you to the _Tonnant."_

Relief flooded Bush. "I wish you wouldn't, sir."

"Then I won't. Mr Lineker seems competent enough, but I would rather not break in a new lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," Bush said, and pressed a kiss to Hornblower's fingertips. After the number of kisses he had pressed to that same hand in the past twenty-four hours, it seemed an entirely natural thing to do, but Hornblower's breath caught.

"William," he breathed at last. His fingers resumed their stroking of Bush's cheek. "I keep thinking I must have made some error. You can't possibly love me."

"I do, sir."

"Do you really?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Sir, please tell me. What did I do to make you doubt me?"

Grief bloomed on Hornblower's face, and he suddenly looked very young. "Oh, William…"

"Was it on the _Renown,_ sir? I keep trying to think..."

"Nothing. You did nothing. _Nothing,_ William. You've been truer than I deserve."

"Then what, sir?"

Hornblower ducked his head, and it seemed he might not speak at all.

"Please, sir."

Still Hornblower hesitated. He shook his head helplessly, his eyes pleading for understanding. "It seems so impossible, on the face of it. What is there to love in me? I hear you say it, and it must be pity, or a delusion, or an error in your judgement."

"Then think me in error, sir. Question my good judgement. No, listen to me, sir, please! Think me the most naive fool in the Navy for loving you, but I do love you truly, sir, and you must not doubt that. You nearly died, sir, several times over, for doubting I loved you."

"You're not a fool, William."

"I must be, sir, to love a man who wants my love, but does not believe me capable of giving it."

Hornblower frowned and looked away, and in that moment Bush could see his future before him, futilely loving a man who did not believe he could be loved. His stomach turned over, and he hastily turned away, so that the petals he was abruptly retching up would not stain Hornblower's coverlet.

"Bush!" Hornblower exclaimed. Hands grasped at his, and Bush pressed them in return, trying to reassure Hornblower, even as he gagged. "Oh, god, Bush," Hornblower said, and the despair in his voice cut at Bush's heart. "I love you," Hornblower entreated. "Listen to me, damn you, I love you…!"

But Bush had already known as much for twenty-four hours now, and the declaration had no palliative effect on the fit. Nervous hands clutched tightly at Bush's, and still Bush coughed.

Finally Bush spat the last petal onto the decking. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, trying to catch his breath.

Hornblower looked stricken. "You said it was me you loved."

"I do, sir," Bush answered.

"Surely you know that I love you in return? Bush, speak to me."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry I was so slow to see it. It was unforgivable of me, sir."

"Never mind that. Then why…?" A shaking hand touched Bush's cheek. "The briar should have no hold over you."

Bush shook his head. "It's of no consequence, sir," he said, trying to dismiss the episode, but Hornblower was not put off so easily.

"It's because I doubt your love," Hornblower ventured.

Bush said nothing, but Hornblower took the silence as confirmation.

"I'm rejecting your love, as surely as if I didn't return it at all," Hornblower said. "No, don't argue with me, William. That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Bush said, miserable and ashamed. "But you musn't—"

"Yes, I must. I must and I shall," he said, with a fierce determination. "I won't let the briar take you, Bush. Not for my life would I see you where I am now."

"A commander, sir?" Bush asked, and startled a laugh from Hornblower.

"Oh, Bush," he said, but there was still a stricken, haunted look in his eyes. He looked so young, like a tender youth on new and uncertain ground.

"Sir, you musn't… You're still not well," Bush protested. "You should rest."

"I'm well enough," Hornblower replied, with a stubbornness that Bush knew very well. "Will you kiss me?" he asked, the question a mixture of plaintiveness and defiance.

"Certainly, sir," Bush said before Hornblower could regret asking the question — he knew instinctively how little Hornblower enjoyed making himself vulnerable before another. Bush leaned in and kissed Hornblower lingeringly. "Whenever you wish, sir, and gladly." Again he kissed Hornblower, pouring all his ardent affection into the kiss, his yearning to love Hornblower as he best deserved.

When Bush drew back, Hornblower's eyes were wet. He searched Bush's face wonderingly.

"It's a very great error in your judgement, you loving me," Hornblower finally pronounced.

Bush grinned. "That's the spirit, sir."

There was nothing stopping Bush from kissing Hornblower yet one more time, nothing to stop him from lavishing his captain with care and attention, nothing stopping him from expressing his utter relief that Hornblower still lived. Hornblower had endured years of loneliness and longing, and while he might be cured of the briar, a few kisses could not erase the memory of that suffering — but Bush was resolved to try. They kissed, and kissed again, and gradually Hornblower's expression lost that bewildered and searching look.

"William," Hornblower said, his smile shy and boyish, and again it was vitally necessary that he be kissed.

Again they drew back, Hornblower's fingers still on Bush's cheek. He petted the stubble of Bush's beard, smoothing along the grain, occasionally ruffling it back only to smooth it down again.

"You haven't shaved," Hornblower said into the silence.

"There's been no time, sir."

"And I understand you've been neglecting my ship most shockingly."

Bush ducked his head in sudden shame. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." If presented with the same choice again — Hornblower's life, versus placing the _Hotspur_ in the care of another officer — he would choose the same. Nevertheless, it had still been a sad dereliction of his duty, entrusting the ship to Prowse and the unknown Lineker while Bush was preoccupied with the captain's health. He remembered well Hornblower's tongue-lashing of the summer, insisting that even if Hornblower fell, the _Hotspur_ should be seen to first. Perhaps if Hornblower had been struck down in the heat of battle, brutally and decisively, Bush could ignore Hornblower's fate and attend his duty, but to leave him to the clutches of the briar, his survival uncertain, had been impossible.

But Hornblower was no longer in such danger, and Pellew had been correct in his warning: Hornblower would never forgive Bush the loss of his ship.

"I should see to her now, sir. Look to the _Hotspur,_ and discover what kind of officer Lineker is." But even with his duty clear before him, Bush could not resist stealing another kiss — and indeed, Hornblower seemed to welcome his doing so, which made Bush feel giddy with foolishness. "Will you be all right, sir?"

"Yes, of course," Hornblower said primly, pulling the daffodils up to his chin. "I look forward to your report."

"Aye aye, sir."

It was impossible to leave: Hornblower watched Bush's every move as he retrieved his pea jacket and oilskins, and Bush wanted only to return to Hornblower's side, to kiss away that bruised and hungry expression. But Hornblower needed to sleep after the long night's ordeal. Bush needed sleep, also — his giddiness was as much exhaustion as the knowledge that Hornblower lived and loved him. And most importantly, there was the _Hotspur_ to be seen to, before all else.

"Bush," Hornblower said, and Bush turned back from the cabin door.

"Yes, sir?"

"You gave up your cabin to Mr Lineker, did you not?"

Bush swore quietly, having forgotten that detail. "I can retort on Mr Prowse for his cabin."

"No need. You'll turn in here."

"Sir?"

Hornblower shifted to the side, more suggesting space in his narrow cot than actually making it. "There's room."

Bush eyed longingly that narrow sliver of space. The temptation of sharing a warm bed with Hornblower, of being able to kiss and pet him at will, of being able to reassure himself that Hornblower still lived, of being able to hold him while they both slept… Bush was a weak man for wanting that, but want it he did.

Nevertheless, Hornblower needed to rest, and wedging an entire lieutenant into his cot would not be conducive to that, no matter how much Bush may want it. "You need to sleep, sir."

"I'll sleep all the better for having you here, and that's the end of it, Mr Bush."

Bush ducked his head to hide his smile, for once delighted to be overruled. "Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower grunted, prickly and dissatisfied, and Bush could contain himself no longer: he strode the two steps back to the cot and gathered Hornblower up in his arms to kiss him again. Hornblower came willingly, clinging tightly to Bush, a hard hand at Bush's collar holding him firmly in place. Hornblower should never feel alone and unloved again, not while Bush had breath in him, and Bush kissed him to show him so.

"Enough, Bush," Hornblower finally said, and Bush buried his face in Hornblower's neck. "Go see to my ship."

Reluctantly, Bush let Hornblower go — but Hornblower drew him back with another kiss.

This time it was Bush who broke away. "I must see to the ship," he said, half-pleading, and this time Hornblower let him go.

"See that you do," Hornblower warned. "I expect to find everything ship-shape when I'm on my feet again."

"Of course, sir," Bush said, too giddy to take the threat to heart.

"Bush," Hornblower said, when Bush's hand was again on the cabin door. "I expect you back here when you've finished your rounds."

"Yes, sir. Please sleep, sir. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"And take the time to shave," Hornblower ordered grumpily, and Bush grinned.

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, and went to see to Hornblower's ship.


End file.
